


Fat Electrician

by Wallissa



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Perfume, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28075770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: The floor of the elevator is covered with the same plush-red carpet as the corridors and the walls are mirrored, so once the matte golden doors slide closed, it feels like they’re trapped in a jewellery box. Him, Napoleon, and the scent.Illya doesn't really mean to notice all those little details about his coworker, but he simply can't help himself. After a little moment in an elevator, the impression of cedarwood and vanilla, the memories of a smile cling to him.Perfume is, after all, a terribly sensual affair.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77





	Fat Electrician

“What?“

“Fat Electrician.” Napoleon repeats, turning to Illya from where he glanced at the vague outline of his own reflection in the golden plate after pressing the button to call their elevator. “The name of the fragrance.”

“I wasn’t asking.” Illya squares his shoulders almost subconsciously, frowning slightly. The elevator dings.

“Not with your mouth, maybe.” With that and one of his winning smiles, Napoleon passes him. 

The floor of the elevator is covered with the same plush-red carpet as the corridors and the walls are mirrored, so once the matte golden doors slide closed, it feels like they’re trapped in a jewellery box. Him, Napoleon, and the scent. 

“Stupid name. Who wants to buy something like that?”

Napoleon clicks his tongue, but his eye is once again drawn by his own reflection. Not that he’s looking for flaws in his appearance, Illya’s not foolish enough to make that assumption. Instead, his gaze is mildly curious, slightly appreciative. The gaze you would spare a stranger on the street whose sense of dress you appreciate. “I agree, but you’re not usually the type to judge a book by its cover, are you? The meaning is – well, it’s about how beauty will fade and decay, and a beautiful young man may as well become a fat electrician at some point in his life. Memento Mori, all that.”

There’s not much else to do, so Illya watches Napoleon watch himself, hands clasped behind his back like a boy in a sweets shop. “The fragrance of Dorian Gray.”

At that, Napoleon laughs, a flash of pearls in their jewellery box. “Oh, yes. That’s good, I like that.” Before he can say more, the doors ding and slide open again. They step into the entrance hall, buttoning their coats before they brace the rain-drenched Belgian October, and the little moment in the jewellery box melts away like honey stirred into tea.

And that’s that. Another little fragment Illya never asked for. Cashmere sweaters and a very distinct dislike of the scent of gunpowder. Gleaming fashion magazines on anonymous hotel nightstands and a forgotten cup of assam, cooling and fragrant. Smooth jazz at night and honey-scented lotions. French newspapers rustling over the breakfast table and a glass of whiskey after dinner. A shot of Vodka, sometimes. And now – Fat Electrician.

Illya doesn’t really mean to collect those little bits and fragments, but it’s not like he can help it with how closely they work together these days. Some things, he tries to forget, like Napoleon’s hands on a gun or the cut of his suits, how quietly he slips through the shadows or the velvet-rough quality of his voice when he just woke up. A flash of pearls in a jewellery box. But they always come sneaking back. _Fat Electrician._

~*~

It’s a few weeks later. They’re in Vienna, it’s winter and for once, things go smoothly. 

A party, a pill of some sort in a flute of champagne, a fainting spell, a gallant playboy leading a lady off to the study to lay down for a moment while she recovers. He sends his bodyguard to wait outdoors, and the rest is sleight of hand.

Illya is not as good of a thief as Napoleon, but he picked up a few tricks along the road. This particular trick, they’ve been studying for a while now (late nights at Napoleon’s room, cuffs undone and sleeves rolled up, a warm hand on his, “Gentle, Peril, this lady is delicate. You have to tease her a little to get her to open up, see?”), and Illya plays his role perfectly. An USB-drive slipped into a secret compartment in his heels, then he’s back at the door to the study, squared shoulders and a blank expression.

Not a single gunshot later, they’re on their way to the car. It’s some gleaming thing, all smooth lines and tinted windows. Truthfully, Illya doesn’t really care for them beyond their abilities to bring him from one place to another at the required speed, but he likes holding the door open for Napoleon. 

It’s another hotel, of course. Tents and concrete floors are all but distant memories these days, replaced by endless numbers of hotel rooms, the scent of carpet cleaner and fresh flowers.  
A receptionist at a marble desk and their keys, gold and engraved wood smooth and heavy in their palms. Then, the elevators. 

Plush red carpets, the floor numbers on a plate of muted gold, like rows of chocolates placed on a tray. A handrail of gleaming dark wood and mirrored walls. A jewellery box.

It gives Illya pause, his mind sorting through his memories. He turns to glance at Napoleon, who gives himself an appreciative once-over in the mirror. The suit is flashier than usual, a very memorable shade of opalescent blue.

“What’s on your mind?” Napoleon takes off his left glove with utmost care. In comparison to white leather and fur trim, the sight of his hand is strangely intimate. He’s wearing a ring on his thumb, a thick gold band. Attention to detail is important if you plan to escort a lady to an empty study, but that’s not really what Illya’s thinking about.

He averts his eyes, instead watching the floor numbers above them. “Do you think Gaby will want to have drinks?”

Napoleon hums, working on the second glove. “I don’t know. She’s a bit prissy we left her to rot in her room all night, so she might chase us away to get right to work. 

That’s not unlikely. The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

It’s not a very long walk to Gaby’s room, and Illya isn’t thinking much of anything. His mind is still sorting through his memories, the vague impression of Napoleon’s laughter and the line of his shoulders under a dark trench coat.

“Oh, there you are.” Gaby’s wearing a coffee-scented face mask and something that Illya is more or less sure was his shirt at some point. “I was just about to call. You have five minutes.” She steps back to let them in.

There’s some film playing on the TV and the scent of peeled tangerines mixes with a faint note of cigarette smoke. On the bed, the laptop gleams faintly. 

Illya sinks to his knees, fiddling with his shoe until the latch snaps back and the secret department in the heel clicks open. He fishes out the USB drive, clicks the heel back into place, and gets up.

Napoleon is reading the label on the tub Gaby handed him, then unscrews the lid to sniff at the contents. “Well, it certainly _smells_ very good.” He looks like he’s about to add something, but Illya steps in and hands Gaby the USB drive, effectively reaching between them.

“Yes, and coffee grounds are much better for the environment than plastic. Thank you.” The last bit, she directs at Illya. “Now out. I don’t have time the whole night.”  
With that, they’re both waved away and Gaby wanders back to her bed, picking up a fresh tangerine as she goes. She sits down with crossed legs just as Napoleon pulls the door closed behind them.

“Do you want to have that drink, then?”

Illya barely hesitates. He should get ready for bed. They’re supposed to leave for Switzerland at four pm tomorrow and he dislikes sleeping on trains. “Yes.”

~*~

Golden light spills over Napoleon’s shoulders as he emerges from the bathroom. He must’ve combed through his hair with water in lieu of washing the product out before bed and gleaming strands of hair fall into his face. With one hand, he’s pulling at the knot of his tie, in the other, he’s holding a box of perfume.

“Aren’t you going to bed?”

Napoleon raises a brow at him. “You never heard of that Marilyn Monroe quote?” 

“American actresses are not universal education.” Illya pours two glasses of gin. Usually, he’d prefer whiskey, but the clear drink looks nicer with the pearl buttons of Napoleon’s shirt, the blue of his suit trousers.

“I’m not going to argue that point.” Napoleon accepts the glass and raises it in a silent toast. “Anyways, a reporter asked her what she wears to bed – don’t give me that look, it wasn’t _me_ who asked that – and she said –“ here, he tips his voice into some soft, breathy little purr – “I only wear Chanel No.5.” He takes a sip of his drink, then puts the glass down on the writing desk by the window. “Now, I have met many wonderful women who can wear Chanel, but I for myself prefer some more vanilla-woody notes. Not one for bergamot, you see?” With that, he reaches for his collar and undoes one-two-three-four buttons, then uncaps the flacon in his hand.

It’s not uncommon for Illya to feel like he’s watching a play like an actor who didn’t get the right script. Unsure, a little in awe. 

In the warm light of the bedside table lamp, Napoleon’s tan has a caramel-golden quality to it and the folds of his white shirt are dripping in honey. He tips his head a little, dark lashes and gleaming hair. The mist of the perfume glitters for a second, then settles on his throat, the dip between his collarbones.  
Illya swallows thickly, feeling a little hot, a little dizzy. When he breathes in, oddly conscious of the move, he can taste the first trace of the scent, warm and sweet, with a slight hint of spice.

Napoleon glances at him from under lowered lashes, with one of his dimpled, mischievous smiles. “You like it?”

Illya shrugs, unsure what to do with his hands. The suit he’s wearing restricts his movement more than he’s used to and he reaches to undo the cuffs, almost subconsciously, before thinking better of it. “It suits you.”

“C’mere.” Napoleon straightens a little, the light catching as a golden shimmer on his throat. He reaches out his free hand and wiggles his fingers, and Illya (stumbling actor called onto stage, bright-hot lights, the scent of dust and polished wood) steps in as he’s told.

Up close, the scent is more intense. It seems to change the air around them, liquify it, woods and myrrh, vanilla.  
Napoleon’s fingertips brush the back of Illya’s hand and he feels like he just took a sip of champagne, golden heat foaming and sparkling through him. Still, he doesn’t move. Unsure, captivated by the gold on Napoleon’s collarbones and on his cupid’s bow, by the soft shadows under his open collar. 

“You think it’d suit you, too?” With the soft light and the proximity, Napoleon’s voice has softened, too, sweet and warm like caramel.

Illya can feel his pulse fluttering in his throat. He swallows, drunk on the scent clinging to Napoleon’s skin. “I can’t sleep with a heavy fragrance.” 

“Oh?,” Napoleon says softly and Illya can almost feel that little exhale on his skin with how close they’re standing. He’d only have to tilt his head, maybe lean in slightly to catch it with his mouth.

Instead, he nods, unsure of what to say, hyperaware of how cool, how hot his hands are. Champagne in his veins, myrrh and vanilla in his nose.

“That’s a good point.” Napoleon is so close that Illya thinks he could feel the brush of his lashes against his cheek. 

He’s shaking, flushing, wants to tilt his head. He nods, instead. “I should go.” Swallows, words sticking to his tongue. “We have to leave by train tomorrow.”

“True. That might be wise.” Napoleon doesn’t sound hurt or insulted, his voice is still soft and sweet. His fingertips don’t brush Illya’s hand again, he doesn’t step back.

Illya nods. He steps back, flushed with a bird-fluttering pulse. “Goodnight.”

Napoleon smiles after him, a flash of pearls. “Sweet dreams, Illya.”

Hurried exit stage left. His feet on carpet, polished wood. Then, the door clicks shut behind him. 

Curtain. Illya stands, head spinning, champagne in his veins. 

The corridor stretches to his left and right, muted golden lights and plush red carpets.  
He finds the key in the pocket of his suit and weighs it in his hand. Two steps and his fingertips brush the golden doorknob of his own suite. 

For a moment, he stops to think. Cool moonlight and a glittering glass of water, soda burning his throat. The scent of his soap, of cool-fresh hotel bedsheets. The alarm set on his phone, the white ceiling above him and the comfort of his gun, tucked under his pillow.

Maybe, he can read his script just fine. He turns on his heels.

The wood is glossy under his knuckles, cool. Napoleon opens the door, still golden, still vanilla and cedarwood, black pepper and myrrh. Still smiling. “There you are,” he says gently, and pulls him inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> This was an incredibly self-indulgent project. When I opened my test kit by Etat Libre d'Orange and saw Fat Electrician, I was just not for that name at all, but figured I'd get it out of the way and try this scent first. And would you look at that? Now it's one of my favourites.  
> As soon as I tried it, I knew I wanted to write something for it, because the scent just captivated me. And now here we are! [Here](https://www.etatlibredorange.com/products/fat-electrician%22) is a link to their website/the product where you can read about the notes etc, if you'd like :')
> 
> Originally, I only wanted to write the little elevator scene in the beginning, but then I figured that that alone wouldn't really be worth a read, so I tried to expand it and maybe fit some sort of sex scene into it as well, since perfume is so sensual and I in general wanted to convey a sensual atmosphere. But I really didn't feel like it in the end? Which is to say - again, this was very self-indulgent. I have a tendency to try and make things "worthy" of being published on here etc etc so just...keeping it like that and not forcing myself to expand it and make it longer is me trying to be kinder with myself and my creative process :'>
> 
> All that aside, some little thoughts: Henry Cavill is very pale, but! I say Napoleon shouldn't be! It makes sense for a 60s playboy to be tan, that was the hot look back then. And since I wrote this...my rules apply...(even if it's a modern AU idk idk I just want him to be tan)  
> Also I love Gaby! She's wearing the Lush coffee mask. Also she was watching German TV, so I figured that might impact her sentence structure a bit? 
> 
> But to finish this up (wir haben ja nicht den ganzen Tag Zeit!) - Thank you again for reading!! I hope you have a very nice day/night <3
> 
> (oh! Almost forgot! you can find me on [tumblr!](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/))


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